Meet Mike Greenberg, the popular host of ESPN Radio's Mike and Mike in the Morning, the highest-rated drive-time sports talk show on the dial. To his three-million-plus listeners, Greeny is the guy who's equally as comfortable dissecting zone defenses as he is discussing cashmere sweaters. He's been to Super Bowls and World Series, All-Star Games and Final Fours. He's interviewed Michael Jordan, Joe Montana, and Wayne Gretzky. He gets paid to enthuse about sports, which means he's the envy of most men in America. This is the hilarious, sometimes touching, and endlessly entertaining debut of one of America's fastest-rising sportscasters, a wry and revealing look at one man's good-hearted but mistake-prone attempt to grow up before his children do. Marriage, fatherhood, manhood, fame, athletes, crazed aunts with gambling problems, the true significance of sports, the worst possible thing to say in a room full of pregnant women-no topic is beyond his reach. But don't take our word on it, read what Greeny has to say about: - Dating: "People who reminisce fondly about dating are blocking out all the disasters and focusing only on the few great nights.
SportsCenter and ESPN Radio mainstay Greenberg wanted to be a journalist, but changed his mind when he was asked, while working at a smalltown newspaper, to interview the mother of a high school valedictorian who had just tragically died. Greenberg moved on to covering sports and never looked back, believing there's nothing better than "investing everything into something that means absolutely nothing." Indeed, his book resembles Seinfeld, with its lightly humorous yet serious renditions of everyday minutiae. Divided into transcripts from some of Greenberg's radio monologues and journal entries about his family life, the book is another entry in the Men Are from Mars... school of sociological observation. Greenberg's viewpoint on the opposite sex essentially involves his subtitle: describing the things he does that make his wife treat him like an idiot. There's plenty of good material in this alone, as well as in some sidesplitting, borscht belt-style material about his gambling-addicted aunt Ada. Unfortunately, the slightly pompous but desperately charming Greenberg also feels the need to fill readers in on such matters as why he doesn't like going to the supermarket and what designer labels he's wearing. Agent, J. De Spoelberch. (On sale Mar. 7) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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March 06, 2006
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Excerpt from Why My Wife Thinks I'm an Idiot by Mike Greenberg
The First Trimester: Denial
I must confess, the very first thought that went through my mind was that Ricky Ricardo was full of shit. And that devastates me, because I love Ricky Ricardo. The man was wearing clothes in the fifties that would still be hip today, and he made smoking look so cool I started doing it. To my mind, he was the coolest character in the history of television.
What a shame he was so obviously full of shit.
I'll tell you how I know: Remember the episode where Lucy tells Ricky she's pregnant? She does it anonymously, making him figure it out in front of his audience at the Tropicana nightclub. Ricky sings "We're Having a Baby, My Baby and Me," trying to guess which guest is the lucky one. Do you remember how he strolls right past Lucy without the foggiest notion it might be she who is expecting? What are we to make of this? Was it the second Immaculate Conception? Had Ricky never traversed the space between those separated twin beds? Could it really have been that much of a surprise?
Now, this was the fifties, so I'm willing to cut them slack on sexual chemistry. I suppose in the time of Joseph McCarthy, network censors might have been squeamish if Lucy had said, "I should go off the Ortho-Cept this week. Last time it took me three months to get my period."
But did they really need to insult our intelligence?
Now, maybe it was better the way they did it. I certainly didn't need to hear Lucy tell Ricky she was ovulating, or tell Ethel she was three centimeters dilated and twenty percent effaced. I don't regret never seeing Lucille Ball in the stirrups, or bored out of her mind on bed rest because she was carrying too low and they didn't want to use a stitch in her cervix. Perhaps the world was a better place when we were spared all of that on television, but mustn't Ricky have had some inkling that Lucy might be knocked up?
The point of all this is that today, my wife told me we are going to have a baby. Unlike Ricky, I was not shocked by the news. Not after we went off the pill three months ago, visited three obstetricians and a pediatrician, pinpointed the optimal instant of ovulation, became unprecedentedly intimate with a thermometer, had sex when I didn't feel like it (a first), and spent hundreds of dollars on books-everything from prenatal diet tips to the benefits of communication with the fetus. Like everything else in my life, this transaction was carefully budgeted, programmed by a computer, dissected on a spreadsheet, discussed via e-mail, and scheduled in my BlackBerry long before any rabbit died. My wife didn't need to slip me an anonymous note, and there was no point in feigning surprise. This was a day that was only about the facts.
We're having a baby. My baby and me.